Chapter 1 #2
The parasol swooped down upon him like a homicidal pelican diving for a fish.
The wooden handle struck him in the temple with enough force he should have been knocked clean off his feet and tumbled into the sea, but he—rather impressively, really—managed to keep his balance with a nimble leap to the left.
My, he was a remarkably robust sort of gentleman. One might even say vigorous, with his muscular chest, the water streaming down his lean flanks to a pair of long, well-turned legs. Every inch of his bare skin was on display, from his broad shoulders to the taut, firm globes of his…er, his—
“What the devil just hit me?”
“I beg your pardon, sir!” She slapped her hand over her eyes and lurched forward a step, her half boot flying off her foot as she went, any pretense at gracefulness vanishing as she fell to a sprawling heap on the sand. “The wind blew my parasol away, and—”
“Your parasol! Are you quite sure that’s all it was?”
“Yes. I’m terribly sorry.” She mustn’t look up! Whatever else she did, she mustn’t venture so much as a glance. Goodness, this was dreadfully awkward.
“A proper bludgeoning, for a parasol.” There was a shuffle of footsteps, then a thud like a pair of feet hitting the sand, followed by a rustle of clothing. “Are you quite sure you didn’t throw a brick at me?”
She bristled at the accusation. “Of course I’m sure. Why would I throw a brick at a stranger? Where would I even get a brick?”
He muttered something unintelligible, then a pair of bare feet appeared in her line of vision, followed by a large hand. “Come on then, up you go.”
“I’d rather not.” It was bad enough she’d thoroughly ogled him. She wasn’t going to touch him as well.
“It’s safe, madam. I’m decently covered now.”
Safe for whom? And was that a hint of amusement in his tone? Why, how dare he? There wasn’t anything amusing about naked gentlemen roaming the beach.
But she couldn’t lie here forever, so she clambered awkwardly to her feet, her wet hems dragging in the sand, and ventured a quick glance at him.
He was covered, but not decently so. He’d donned a banyan, but a significant portion of his bare upper chest was visible still, along with an intriguing spattering of crisp dark hair. His eyes were an unusual pale gray, and he had a hard, angular jaw and full, stern lips.
They stared at each other, neither of them saying a word, time spooling out between them, one of his dark eyebrows aloft, as if he didn’t know what to make of her.
He didn’t know what to make of her? For pity’s sake. At least she’d remembered to dress herself before she’d ventured outside this morning.
Why didn’t he say something? Better yet, why didn’t she go?
But neither of them moved. They stood there in the sand with the wind rushing over them and the waves crashing onto the shore, those gray eyes holding hers, something she couldn’t define swirling in their wintry depths.
Finally, he leaned down and swept up her shoe, which was lying in the sand.
“Here.” He held it out to her, the corners of his lips twitching. “I believe this is yours.”
If Hart had known he’d be treated to a beating during his sunrise swim, he would have made it a point to have his breakfast before he left home this morning.
As it turned out, he didn’t much care for a bludgeoning before he’d even had his coffee, but then again, he’d never been bludgeoned by a redheaded madwoman before, so at least it was something different.
The poor, daft chit was blinking up at him with a pair of startled green eyes as if he were an apparition and not a gentleman of flesh and blood.
Odd, considering how much of his flesh she’d seen.
Her cloak was askew, her skirts damp, and the wind had taken liberties with her hairpins. Wild auburn locks whipped about in the breeze, twisting around her face like a…a…nest of glorious snakes.
Or something like that. He’d never been much of a poet.
The point was, she was as lovely a lady as he’d ever seen despite her apparent madness, and one did have to give her credit. Any number of people in Brighton wanted to see him bludgeoned and drowned, but she’d come closer than any of them.
And with a parasol, no less.
“Are you hurt, madam?”
Nothing. She continued to stare at him, her lips parted and her eyes so wide they were in danger of tumbling out of her head.
Was she simple, as well as daft? “Madam? Can you hear me?”
She blinked again, then, “Of course I can hear you. How can I help it? You’re standing practically on top of me.”
Now it was his turn to blink. No one ever spoke to him like that—he was Armitage Hart, for God’s sake—but she was charming even when she was scolding, and a startled laugh escaped him. “Of course. How foolish of me.”
“Indeed. Perhaps you’ve got a head injury. You’re bleeding, just there.” She waved a hand at his head.
“Am I?” He pressed his fingers to his temple, and they came away dotted with blood. “Ah, so I am.”
“I’m afraid my parasol got away from me. I do beg your pardon.”
“Yes, so you said. I thought it was a particularly aggressive pink bird.”
She was engaged in a fruitless attempt to straighten her skirts, but she paused to eye him, her lips pinched into a disapproving line. “Oh? Do birds make a habit of attacking you, sir?”
She said it as if it would only make sense if they did.
“No, I can’t say they do, but neither have I ever been attacked by a parasol, so you can see how I might have made such a mistake.” Good Lord, was he grinning at her as foolishly as it felt like he was?
“Well, let’s hope this is the first and last time. As you see, you’ve vanquished your attacker.” She nodded at the water behind him. “I congratulate you.”
He turned, shielding his eyes from the sun, and there was her parasol skimming over the waves, well on its way to France. “What a pity. I’m sorry you lost it.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
But it did matter, because she watched it bobbing away with stark yearning until it was out of sight before turning back to him. “I’m very sorry for your injury, sir. Good day.”
“Wait!” he blurted, taking a step toward her. Good Lord, he sounded as mad as she did, but it had been months since he’d been so entertained by someone. No doubt she’d start to bore him sooner rather than later, but until then he didn’t fancy letting her go.
She turned back to him, one slim auburn eyebrow arched. “Yes?”
“I, ah… You must let me escort you home.”
“No thank you. That’s not necessary. Good day.”
“Wait!” Clearly he’d left his dignity somewhere on the beach along with a substantial chunk of flesh from his temple, but he couldn’t have held the word back if his life had depended on it. “You could be injured.”
“I’m not.”
“You can’t possibly know that yet. Forgive me, madam, but I’m afraid I must insist that you allow me to escort you to your lodgings, just in case you succumb to a swoon from the shock on the way.”
“The shock of stumbling upon a man in a state of…of…” She waved a hand at him, her cheeks coloring. “A state of undress on a public beach? I assure you, sir, I’ve seen far worse, and never succumbed to a swoon.”
“This is the gentleman’s beach, madam. If you don’t wish to be exposed to gentlemen in a state of undress, you’d do well to remain on the lady’s beach.”
She’d begun to walk away, but at that she turned around again, her brow pinched into the most delightful little furrow. “The gentleman’s beach? I don’t understand.”
“Ah, I see the problem. This is your first visit to Brighton, isn’t it?” He might have guessed. He’d have noticed her at once if he’d seen her on the promenade or in the pump room.
“It is, yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“The men bathe on the west side of the beach. Being men, and thus rather savage, we tend to do our bathing without the encumbrance of clothing. The ladies bathe on the east side, nearer to the Royal Pavilion stables.”
She regarded him in suspicious silence for a moment, as if she didn’t quite believe him, then, “Do the ladies also bathe without the encumbrance of clothing?”
“God, no. We’d never get the gentlemen away from there if they did. The ladies wear bathing costumes and enter the water from bathing machines to protect their virtue.”
“I see.” She considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “It’s rather unfair to the ladies. Bathing costumes are wretched things. One can’t paddle about with any enthusiasm in a bathing costume. Why should the gentlemen be permitted to bathe without encumbrance, and not the ladies?”
It was the last thing he’d expected her to say, but she did have a point. “I confess I never thought of it that way.”
“No, I daresay you haven’t. Gentlemen rarely do think of things in the proper way. Good day, sir.” She offered him a stiff curtsey, turned on her heel and began marching back in the direction of the Old Steine.
“Wait!” Damnation, but he was one step away from chasing her across the beach. Why did she have him so transfixed? Did he have a weakness for mad redheads who attacked him? “You won’t let me escort you home, even after I’ve told you all of Brighton’s secrets?”
She eyed him. “Why would they be secrets? Surely the illustrious citizens don’t wish for ladies to be stumbling over unclothed gentlemen at every turn?”
“Well, no, but you can’t deny I’ve just saved you from making a rather embarrassing blunder.”
“The next one, perhaps.” She gave him a thin smile. “Alas, I seem to be still in the midst of my first embarrassing blunder.”
She didn’t wait for his reply, but strode off toward town, the sun lighting up the strands of gold in her hair and turning the thick locks into deep red flames.
He gazed after her, a strange humming in his chest. She’d interrupted his morning bathe, seen him without a scrap of clothing on him, all his bits exposed, and come uncomfortably close to concussing him with her parasol.
The lady was a menace, yet somehow, he was the one who’d just been put in his place. Damned if she hadn’t just dismissed him as if he were a gnat she’d squashed under her palm.
Him, a gnat!
And now she was striding along the beach with her shoulders back and her head high as if she hadn’t a care in the world, her errant shoe still clutched in her hand.
He’d find her, one way or another.
He was, after all, Armitage Hart.
Brighton had no secrets from him.